


Lying Like Precious Bones

by mytimehaspassed



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Reincarnation, Sibling Incest, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-14
Updated: 2011-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-22 06:14:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/234779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mytimehaspassed/pseuds/mytimehaspassed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Merlin is seventeen, Hunith dies on holiday in Dublin on one of those wet, winding roads that curve around too fast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lying Like Precious Bones

_**082**_  
 **LYING LIKE PRECIOUS BONES**  
MERLIN  
Merlin/Arthur  
 **WARNINGS** : AU; incest; character deaths; reincarnation; vague spoilers for the legends.

When Merlin is seventeen, Hunith dies on holiday in Dublin on one of those wet, winding roads that curve around too fast. Gaius tells Merlin this with his hands open out in front of him, wrinkled palms and long, crooked fingers, and Merlin can’t stop staring long enough to say something, anything, but mostly something starting with Oh My God and ending with What Will I Do. Gaius tells Merlin that everything will be alright, but Merlin can’t quite believe that anything can be alright after this, the image of his mother lying on a road in Ireland with blood matted in her hair.

Gaius tells Merlin that he’s going to live with the father he’s never met, somewhere in the country where his father has a big estate and another son he chose over Merlin, all those years ago when his parents got divorced. Gaius tells Merlin that his father has already bought the train tickets, that Merlin is leaving in a few hours.

Gaius says, “Pack what you need now, and Uther will have everything else shipped over.”

And Merlin nods numbly, moving his hands to his jean pockets so Gaius won’t notice them shaking.

Gaius says, “Everything will be alright, Merlin.”

And Merlin can’t open his mouth for fear of what might come out.

***

(Uther has sent Merlin exactly five Christmas cards since Merlin was born. Two of them were six months late, stamped with the ink of three different countries that Merlin has never been to. Merlin keeps them in a shoebox under his bed, the golden script on expensive off-white colored stationary and Uther’s name scratched in pen at the bottom, curled like an apology or something close to it.

He has read each of them exactly twenty-two times, peeling open the envelopes with the softest touch he knows.

This is not one of the things he takes with him when he leaves.)

***

Uther’s house looks more like a castle and less like what Merlin and Hunith spent the last seventeen years living in, the small flat just outside of London, with the creaky staircase and cat-scratched sofa and broken tea pot. The inside is cold and sharp and angled so the sunlight has nowhere to pool on the floor.

Merlin hates it instantly.

Uther meets him in the hallway, taller than Merlin’s imagination, broader, with his mouth in a line so straight it turns white. Uther says, “Merlin,” like he’s the farthest from being happy to see him, his voice echoing in the corridor.

Merlin wants to say hi, but doesn’t know how his voice will sound, so he says nothing at all. Uther flinches from the silence.

“I’m sorry to hear about your mother. She,” Uther starts, and then stops, his mouth straightening once more, the white of his face growing. “She was lovely,” he finishes, and if Uther knows that Merlin heard the tremor in his voice, he doesn’t say anything.

Merlin feels this stillness in his chest, but nothing else. He says, “Thank you.”

Uther clears his throat and gestures to somebody behind Merlin, someone in black and white and carrying in Merlin’s haggard luggage. “Take those to the room next to Arthur’s, will you?”

And Merlin says, “Arthur?” before he can stop himself, breathless, delicate.

Uther clears his throat one more time. “Your,” he takes in a breath. “Your brother,” he says.

And Merlin says, “Oh.”

***

(What Merlin knows about Arthur can fit in the palm of his hand.

His mother used to bury Arthur’s school pictures under her jewelry box, pulling them out when she thought Merlin wasn’t looking, stroking the face, the smile, the golden hair, crying silently, her shoulders shaking through her cardigan. Merlin would watch until he couldn’t anymore, his hands curling into fists at the thought of a boy like Arthur who would hurt his mother without even trying, a father like Uther who would just take away everything for reasons nobody bothered to explain.

Arthur was four when Uther left. His favorite sandwich was peanut butter and jam. He loved to put his mouth against Hunith’s tummy and talk to the little boy inside, his sticky fingers splayed against Hunith’s favorite jumper. He loved to bury his nose in the crook of Hunith’s neck. He loved to sleep with his ear over Hunith’s belly button, listening to the two heartbeats inside.

And Merlin never even knew his name.)

***

Uther fucks off to some meeting with a foreign, rival company that he’s been eyeing to take over for two years now, and leaves Merlin to find his room on his own, walking up the winding steps with trepidation or anxiety or something close to it, his hand running along the smooth, wooden bannister. The top floor is just as vast and confusing as the main floor, and Merlin gets lost twice looking through rooms for anything resembling his things. He counts six bathrooms and two libraries before he finds a room that looks lived in, opening the door and stepping in with the full intention of asking for help.

He stops short when he sees a boy sitting on the bed, not much older than him. The boy looks up and Merlin knows its Arthur, knows it like he knows the golden hair and the blue of his eyes, just like their mother’s eyes, just like Merlin’s eyes. Arthur rubs a hand across his face in the same way that Merlin does when he doesn’t want anyone to know he’s been crying. “Can I help you?” He says, rudely, his voice scratched and raw.

“Hello,” Merlin says, and something breaks inside of him when he realizes that Arthur doesn’t know him. “I’m just,” he bites his lip. “I’m just looking for my room.”

“Are you one of the maid’s sons?” Arthur asks, sticking out his chest, proud, but doesn’t even wait for an answer. “Because their quarters are in the other wing, you know.” He rolls his eyes and turns back to the letter in his hands. It’s torn and well folded, but even from the distance Merlin can see the familiar slopes of his mother’s beautiful handwriting.

“Oh,” Merlin says. “Cheers, Arthur.” He can feel this sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, he can feel his hands start to tremble, so he turns to leave.

“Wait,” Arthur says, and Merlin stops, his back still turned, his hand reaching for the door.

Merlin hears Arthur get off the bed, his feet sliding on the floor, the brush of a hand on Merlin’s wrist, pulling him around, slowly. Arthur is even more beautiful up close, staring at Merlin and Merlin’s unruly hair, the spots on his forehead, the flush along his high cheekbones. Merlin’s hands are still trembling, ensnared between two of Arthur’s fingers, and, this close, Merlin notices Arthur’s red-rimmed eyes, the wet of his cheeks, and Merlin wants to tell him that everything will be okay, just like Gaius had told him that everything would be okay (Merlin wants to hold Arthur’s hands between his just like Gaius had held Merlin’s hands, and Merlin wants to whisper that she loved Arthur, that she loved them both, that maybe she’s still here with them and maybe she’ll never leave because Merlin can’t think of one single good reason why a mother would ever leave her children), but Merlin’s never been so unsure of anything in his whole life.

Arthur’s mouth lifts on one side, and he says, “Thanks for not saying anything, Merlin.”

And he means about his tears. And he means about the way his eyes shine in the dim light of the room, blue and broken, and how Merlin could have said anything starting with How Could You and ending with You Never Even Knew Her, but didn’t because Merlin knows what it’s like to lose somebody you could never forget.

And Merlin’s heart soars at the name, at the recognition there, his heartbeat loud in his ears. “About what?” he asks, anyway.

“About, you know.” And Arthur brushes his cheek with his knuckles, brushes the wet spot there. “Just,” and here he rubs Merlin’s wrists with those same two fingers, rubs the rapid pulse. “Thanks.”

And Merlin smiles and says, “You’re welcome.”

***

(As it happens, Hunith sent Arthur pictures of Merlin every year.

Arthur kept them all in a shoebox under his bed, grade four Merlin with his crooked smile and only half of his teeth, grade six Merlin not even looking at the camera, his hair knotted with curls. Merlin with his arm around his mum, smiling wide, his sunglasses slipping down his nose, and Hunith pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“That was on hols last year,” Merlin tells Arthur when Arthur pulls out the shoebox. They had gone to the beach, and Hunith had laughed when Merlin forgot to put on sunblock, burning as bright as a tomato.

Arthur pulls out a picture of Hunith and Arthur that Merlin has never seen. Hunith looks so young, her belly swollen and her hand on her back, her mouth in a little o while Arthur reaches up, his ear flush against her side. The edges of the photograph are torn, the middle is creased with folds, and it’s so obvious that this is Arthur’s favorite that Merlin cradles it as gently as he would anything alive.

Arthur says, “I remember talking to you in there, you know.” He smiles, but it’s flat, wistful. “I remember mum telling me that you could hear me, but that I couldn’t hear you. So I just made up your part.” And here he laughs, and it’s brilliant and it’s nice, and Merlin can’t remember the last time he ever felt so wholly connected to someone.

And Arthur doesn’t say a word when Merlin begins to cry.)

***

On the third night, Merlin dreams of magic. He dreams of flashes of steel and the cold, heavy weight of chainmail and the glow of Arthur’s hair in the sun, his brilliant smile as he reaches out for Merlin’s hand, a spark of gold between them when they connect.

In Merlin’s dreams, they are always together.

In Merlin’s dreams, they are never apart, Arthur’s skin flush beneath Merlin’s, their lips meeting briefly in the height of battle, the sound of fighting around them, the roar and charge of horses, the clinking of swords, and Arthur saying something against Merlin’s mouth and Merlin agreeing, because Arthur has always been his king, even when he was only a prince, even before Arthur knew of the magic Merlin kept inside him like a butterfly in a cage, twirling and dancing and fluttering beneath his skin, even before Merlin had known that he loved him, that Arthur had loved him back, that they would die here on this battlefield and rise again to be something great, to be something more.

Merlin wakes up in his bed in Uther’s house and presses a clammy hand to his eyes. He can feel the beginnings of a headache swelling just about his temple, can feel the pain stretch across his forehead, under his eyes, across his nose. And it’s always like this, the dreams Merlin could never shake, even after his mum would get him a glass of water and a couple tablets of paracetamol, even after she would wrap herself around him and run her fingers through his hair until he fell back into an easy sleep, the rumble of her chest against his cheek as she hummed nonsense songs above him.

Merlin chokes back tears when a wave of nausea reminds him that his mum will never be able to comfort him again, reminds him that she will never be there to sweep his hair from his face, to curl a palm around his cheek, and he shuts his eyes around the pain in his chest and he bites his lip hard enough to bleed. With a sharp intake of breath, he slides out of the bed and staggers out of the door, and maybe it’s to find the bathroom, or maybe it’s intentional, but he turns the knob to Arthur’s room and pads quietly across the floor until his knees hit the mattress, until he lifts the duvet and slips gently inside.

Arthur doesn’t even say anything when he turns his head and finds Merlin there, shivering with despair, his lips dark with blood. Arthur doesn’t even say anything when Merlin fits himself against him, Merlin’s wet mouth finding a warm spot on Arthur’s neck, Merlin’s hands sliding across Arthur’s waist, Merlin’s legs twining around Arthur’s legs. Arthur doesn’t even say anything when Merlin starts to cry, gently, against Arthur’s jaw, his tears sliding hot and fast down his cheeks, his mouth opening and closing with stuttered breaths.

Arthur pulls Merlin closer and kisses the top of his dark head, his heat radiating against Merlin’s skin, lessening the ache across Merlin’s head, drawing him in and close. And Merlin smiles when Arthur begins to hum.

***

(This happens every night for four weeks until Merlin finds the courage to kiss Arthur on the mouth, his eyes red and his cheeks wet and Arthur sagging against him in defeat or something close to it, pushing past his own reservations to draw Merlin closer, kissing hard enough to bruise. They don’t say anything, they don’t stop it, and their fingers and teeth and tongues dance across each other and Arthur smiles when Merlin pulls back only once to open his mouth and question if this is okay, to see if this is what he wants too, smiles and tells him with his eyes that this is something he’s wanted just as long as Merlin has and it’s perfect and it’s brilliant and he pulls Merlin back into his embrace and Merlin doesn’t stop again for the rest of the night.

Merlin never tells Arthur of the dreams he has, but only because they always end the same. He thinks it might be what his mum looked like when they found her: Arthur’s golden hair swallowed by the red of his blood.)

***

Uther has given Merlin as much time as he thinks is needed to deal with his mother’s death before he assigns him a tutor for his A Levels, leaving him to sit in the massive parlour on the main floor with textbooks and a tall, thin man who talks with a monotone voice and always wears impeccable three-piece suits. Arthur rolls his eyes whenever Merlin speaks of him, presses two fingers to Merlin’s collarbone until he stills beneath his touch, Arthur’s fingers tracing patterns that feel familiar against Merlin’s skin, half-remembered symbols from his dreams, symbols of magic.

“You don’t have to sit them, you know,” Arthur says, but only because when Merlin mentions the endless hours of studying, his eyes grow cold and distant. Only because he can think of nothing that’s less claustrophobic than sitting in a stuffy room learning maths all day. It is Uther’s dream for Merlin to become something that can make him proud, something that will follow the precedence that Arthur has set. “You don’t have to go to uni if you don’t want to.”

“I know,” Merlin says, shrugging, but only because he’s not sure what else he would want to do, what else Arthur would want him to do, Arthur, who is the last connection Merlin has to a mother he will never see again.

Uther has hired Arthur in some capacity that will leave the company in Arthur’s hands once Uther steps down, prompting Arthur to spend sleepless nights in the office, poring over papers that are left in small, neat stacks on his desk in the morning. Arthur worries about the people he will one day be in charge of, worries about the decisions he will one day make, worries about the way his father looks old and tired sometimes, Uther sliding his fingers across his brow in some attempt at empathy.

Merlin sees this and shows Arthur that he loves him in the only way he knows how, a soft brush of lips, Merlin’s fingers deft on the zipper of Arthur’s jeans, Arthur’s skin flush and hot under his.

***

(They are only caught once, by one of the housemaids who squeaks when she sees them, tangled in bed and kissing languidly, flat against each other. Her eyes are wide and when she opens her mouth, the language she speaks isn’t one that either of them are fluent in and Merlin hides his face in the crook of Arthur’s neck and Arthur yells something that might be get out, but Merlin has his ears buried so he can only hear the rumble of Arthur’s chest and the anger there, rising up hot and solid in this throat, Merlin biting back the tears that want to fall because he knows that this will be the last time he will see Arthur except for in his dreams, where Arthur lays still and silent on the cold, grey ground, unmoving around the swell of blood from his chest, the broken chainmail and the glint of his sword in the grass, useless and unworthy.

And, later, Arthur will tell Merlin that nobody will ever take him away, that nobody will ever come between them or tear them apart, that Arthur will leave if Merlin is forced to go, that Arthur would rather leave everything he’s ever known behind to follow Merlin rather than stay here without him.

Merlin finds out from one of the valets that the maid had left that day with a train ticket to her home country and an envelope filled with enough money for two lifetimes. He never once tells Arthur that he knows.)

***

They go on holiday in France and Arthur drags Merlin to the beach and sits on a towel in the sand telling him stories about his childhood, bits and pieces of what he remembers about their mother, snatches of times that Uther smiled and laughed and told Arthur that he was proud of him. Merlin craves the way Arthur tells him these things, boiling under the heat of the sun, rolling his eyes when Arthur presses a palm to Merlin’s pink skin and it stays white for one two three seconds. Merlin craves the way Arthur leans against him and whispers stories into his ear and nobody cares if they kiss in public or touch each other the way that they want to.

They stay until the sun slopes well past the flat line of the horizon and the slight breeze turns cold on their bare skin and Arthur slips his hoodie around Merlin’s shoulders and they walk barefoot back to the car and Arthur tugs Merlin into the backseat and they fuck right there, slow and soft and so attuned to each other that when someone runs giggling past in the dark, they don’t even startle. Merlin curls against Arthur and hums something throaty and nice and Arthur asks him to talk about his childhood and Merlin does, the sudden flash of his mother overwhelming in the dark space of the car.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur says, and Merlin knows it’s for the letters he never wrote, the holidays he never spent with them, the times he never rung. And Merlin knows it’s for Uther because Uther will never apologize for taking what was rightfully his.

“I’m sorry, too,” Merlin says. And it’s for never telling him about the nightmares, and it’s for this thing that’s inside both of them that they never acknowledge, this thing that will never let Merlin see Arthur without knowing that they will be something else, that they will be something strong and powerful. This thing that comes to him with images of Arthur’s death.

They never talk about it. Merlin doesn’t even know where to start, the dreams he can’t escape, the lies he tells himself to not believe. Arthur’s own words that have echoed in Merlin’s sleep before Arthur has even said them, words of loyalty and honor that have pressed themselves against Merlin’s mouth.

Merlin knows that Arthur knows that they’ve never once belonged here.

Arthur takes him back to their hotel room and he opens up all the windows and turns off the lights and they sleep crushed together, the sound of the waves loud enough to reach their dreams.

***

(In the end, it doesn’t happen like Merlin dreamt it would. There is no battlefield, there are no knights, Merlin doesn’t forge a sword of magic for Arthur to wield, Arthur doesn’t fight to save a kingdom that is rightfully his, there are no people who scream out his name when he falls, there is no blood that feels thick in Merlin’s hand, no blood that feels cold. When Merlin dreamt, it felt small and ancient and wrong, like something that happened outside the timeline of destiny.

When Merlin dreamt, it wasn’t something that would happen, it was something that had already happened. Something that had already come to pass, something that Merlin had no control over.

Years later, he tells Arthur about his dreams and Arthur laughs and calls him an idiot, calls him daft, his fingers warm and promising on Merlin’s, tells him that he always knew he was a king, his smile wide and soft in the dim light, pulling Merlin close to his chest. He tells Merlin that he always knew he was something great, something brilliant, pressing one small kiss on Merlin’s temple.

In the end, Arthur simply goes to sleep and never wakes up.)


End file.
